Dead Heat - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,121

I think has been going on and ask him for some police protection. It’ll be fine.’

We stopped just north of Oxford and enjoyed a leisurely lunch in a pub garden, sitting under a bright red sun umbrella that made our delicious Stilton and broccoli soup appear pink when it should have been green. The closer we came to Newmarket the more nervous I became, and, when we arrived in the town at about six o’clock, I felt lost, like a fish out of water. I had no home to go to, nothing but a pile of blackened stones and ash, which I drove slowly past in each direction, as Caroline sat silently staring at the devastation.

‘Oh, Max,’ she said after our second pass. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘I can always rebuild,’ I said. But that little cottage was the only home I had ever owned and I could remember clearly the excitement on that July day nearly six years ago when 1 had first moved in, the joy of discovery of unknown cupboards, and the sounds made by the structure as the hot summer day had cooled towards evening. It had been built from local stone in the last decade of the eighteenth century and, although I currently owned the freehold, I had always considered myself as a temporary tenant in its long and endless existence. But now its life had been burnt away. Murder had been done here, not on a human being, but on a member of my family nevertheless. What remained was dead, and silent. Would rebuilding ever bring it back its soul? Perhaps the time was right, after all, for me to grieve for my loss, and to move on.

‘Where exactly are we going to sleep tonight?’ Caroline asked, after I had finally driven away from the disaster.

‘Do you remember when I first talked you into coming to Newmarket, I promised you a night at the Bedford Lodge Hotel,’ I said. ‘And the best-laid plans were somewhat disrupted by a certain car crash. Well, tonight, my dear, you shall finally have your night in Newmarket’s finest hotel.’

‘I am honoured,’ she said.

‘Don’t get too used to it,’ I said. ‘They only have a room for tonight. They’re full tomorrow.’

‘I have to be in London tomorrow night,’ she said.

I hadn’t forgotten.

*

To say Carl was pleased to see me would be rather an understatement. He almost cried when I walked into the Hay Net kitchen at seven o’clock.

‘Thank God,’ he said.

‘I won’t be much use,’ I said, tapping the hard shell on my right arm.

‘What did you do?’ he asked. His shoulders sagged. His joy was rapidly turning to disappointment.

‘Fell and broke my wrist,’ I said. ‘Stupid. But I can still help a bit.’

‘Good.’ A little of his joy returned.

I didn’t bother to change, I just slipped one of my chef’s tunics over my shirt and set to work assisted by Caroline who did the two-handed jobs.

I wouldn’t exactly claim that the kitchen service was back to normal but we coped with the seventy-two covers. I decided not to go out to the dining room at any stage as I really didn’t want to be seen by any of the customers. The staff saw me, of course, but I asked them to keep it to themselves. I held up the cast and told them my doctor had forbidden me to work and I didn’t want him finding out that I had. They smiled at me, knowingly, and promised to keep the secret. But did I trust all of them to do so?

Finally, the rush was over and we had a chance to sit down. It had now been nearly two weeks since I had worked so hard and I was out of shape. I slumped exhausted into my chair in the office.

‘I never realized it was so hot in a kitchen,’ said Caroline. Throughout the evening she had gradually removed pieces of clothing until removing any more would have been indecent. Marguerite, my mother’s widowed cousin’s fiery cook, who had first nurtured my love for cooking, had regularly worn nothing but a pair of knickers under a white, lightweight cotton doctor’s coat.

‘You should try it on a blazing June day,’ I said.

Carl came into the office from the bar with beers for us all. ‘OK?’ he said to Caroline, handing her one.

‘Lovely,’ she said, taking it.

‘Do you want a job?’ he asked her, smiling. He had the look of a prisoner reprieved from the gallows. Seventy-two dinners was more than